The Continuation of Adam-12
by PippinStrange
Summary: A series of episodes taking place anywhere from the first and last seasons and after. Action-packed, angsty, & humorous stories for the fans. Officers Pete Malloy and Jim Reed encounter all sides of the law- the good, the bad, and the ugly, all while dealing with the growing resentment of cops in 1970s Los Angeles. Featuring main characters from Emergency! as well.


_**Not a Good Enough Reason to Die**_

* * *

...

The crashing medley of lockers slamming could hardly snap Pete Malloy out of his reverie. He mutely fastened the last button around his neck and placed his hat on top of his head. He coughed, and for a moment, wondered if he could swallow with these buttons done up so tight. Perhaps in his age, his neck was growing thicker or something.

"You seem distracted this morning," his partner, Jim Reed, chirped with his usual early-morning brightness, which always seemed inappropriate due to the fact that he hadn't had a coffee yet. "Everything all right?"

Pete heaved a sigh. "Had a doctor's appointment before I came in this morning. Apparently I've got too high of a blood pressure."

"Oh," Jim nodded; smile faltering slightly. "Um—should you be working today?"

Pete slammed his locker loudly, and paused for the clatter inside to stop before answering. "Of course I am going to work today. It's a little high, that's all. I'm just going to take some precautions—no drinking on my weekends, no extra salt on my food. It's all taken care of."

Jim crossed his arms over his chest. "Sounds like you've got it beat already. But is salt and alcohol even the cause?"

"No," barked Pete, pausing a second time and taking a deep breath. Then he smiled ironically. "He thinks its stress!"

"Stress is the cause?" Jim bit the inside of his cheek. "Then stress needs to be decreased, don't you think?"

"How do you purpose I do that?"

"Take a vacation?"

"No," Pete replied shortly, eyes narrowed.

"Then you acknowledge that you're a workaholic?"

"No. I'll take a vacation when I'm told to take one, and not any sooner. It's not an addiction to work, it's a dedication to this city and it's people."

"Then we'll have to alleviate stress while on the job," Jim shrugged off the locker he leaned on and led the way out of the room.

"How's that going to happen? We're cops," Pete gave his partner a rueful grin, following him out into the hallway. "Stress is part of the job."

"But you always seem very calm, no matter what, you always keep your head," Jim commented, "In fact, you're known for it."

"I guess being a good actor comes with the job," Pete rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Enough about me. It's really not something to get into a rut about. How was your weekend?"

"Good. Jean had a really good idea about painting our kitchen, but she didn't want me to help because it was my weekend. So I just relaxed in the living room and took care of the little one and played the records she wanted. She spent all weekend up on her ladder and singing loudly enough for all the neighbors to hear."

"She a good singer?"

"Terrible, but I love it."

…

The patrol car maneuvered slowly around the corner of an empty suburban street. It was one of _those _days. There was a misuse of the 911 dispatch from a twelve-year-old upset about not getting his allowance from a pair of exasperated parents, a suspected kidnapping turned out to be a babysitter returning a child to his mother's workplace, and a barbershop was robbed by a twenty-one-year-old male who was caught six blocks away.

Reed usually chased suspects on the run, but it was Malloy who noticed the person described by the barber take off down an alley. It was a hard run—over a few gates and up a flight of stairs into a park. By the time he returned, beads of sweat dripped down his face and his breathing was haggard.

After booking the thief, the fourth call of the day was a child wandering alone by the freeway. A mother with children in her own van pulled over and tried to coax the child away from the busy street, while her oldest child found a payphone and put in the call. When the officers arrived, the woman began to give her information to Reed, and Malloy ran right up to the little girl and scooped her into his arms. He didn't have time to wait and coax her away from a busy street, not with cars blaring by at eighty miles an hour.

"Put in the call and let's wait here for the time being," Malloy said commandingly. The little girl quietly had her arms wrapped around his neck. "I'm Officer Malloy. What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Kimberly!"

"What's your last name?"

"Grant!"

"And where's your mommy or your daddy?"

The little girl shook her head, popping her thumb into her mouth desolately.

"Do you know the name of your mommy or daddy?"

"Mommy and Daddy!"

"Okay… why did you come to this busy street?"

"I saw a kitty cat…"

"Pete?" called Reed. "Did you get the name of her parents?"

"No. Ask if there have been any calls about a missing child by the name of Kimberly Grant."

A pause. Little Kimberly pulled her thumb from her mouth and began to squirm uncomfortably. "Now, now, hold on," Malloy said easily. "Just calm down. We're looking for your mommy and daddy. Now—honey—do you know your address?"

Kimberly began to cry. No, not a cry—a heart-wrenching wail.

"There there," Malloy patted her head as she buried it into his shoulder and sobbed as only a small child of four years old can sob.

"Pete!" Jim called, popping back out of the patrol car with his face beaming. "We've got a Julie Grant who called in about twenty-five minutes ago. Her young daughter Kimberly disappeared from their backyard. They just sent me her address."

"You did the right thing," Malloy said to the woman, waiting anxiously by her van. Her oldest child, dressed in a sports uniform, came jogging from down the grass strip towards them.

"I hoped they'd beat me back from the payphone," he grinned, breathlessly.

"I'm sure there are a pair of very worried parents that would like to thank-you," Malloy said. "If they were here."

"May I go, officer?" asked the mother. "My son has a soccer game."

"Absolutely. Thanks again." He turned towards their cruiser and tried to comfort the crying child. The woman loaded up her children and waved as she pulled back into the freeway. "Kimberly, did you hear that? We're taking you home to your mommy and daddy."

Kimberly paused long enough to gulp a few sobs down and rub the tears from her swollen, red eyes.

Malloy shifted position, holding her close and patting her back. "Ready to go for an exciting ride in a car that can light up?"

Kimberly nodded tearfully.

Jim looked through the windshield at his partner, feeling a pang of loneliness for the sake of his friend. Jim was young, married, and a father of one wonderful child. Pete was older, gruff with experience and hesitant to show affections. In becoming close with his friends, he worried for their well-being, but never showed it if he could help it. He hadn't married, and girlfriends did not stick around long enough to learn that his love was shown by trying to protect them from and with his life. They usually found fault with his worry and hesitance, calling it bossiness or a fear of commitment. Relationships ended with Malloy returning to work with new fervor—alone. And now, he was holding on to someone else's beloved child with a worried expression as if he himself suffered as the parent did when she discovered her child gone from the yard.

…

"You okay?" Jim asked as they began a new patrol after eating lunch. He had noted that Pete put plenty of salt on his meal, as was usual. He realized that excluding salt from his diet was just a white lie to keep Jim from worrying.

"Yeah," Pete said shortly.

He would have asked 'why' if he meant it, Jim realized. But he didn't push the issue any further. "That little Kimberly sure was cute, wasn't she? All pigtails and gingham."

"Like Dorothy in Oz," chuckled Pete. "And all for a kitty cat she chased."

"We were her ruby slippers," Jim grinned. "No place like home, right?"

"Sure… sure," Pete paused, shaking his head a little as if ending a daydream. "Wait—what?"

"No place like home. From… the Wizard of Oz. You know, Dorothy says it."

Pete squinted at him. "You're going to have to learn to speak up if you expect anyone to understand you."

"I did not realize I was mumbling, sorry," Jim said slowly, knowing that he hadn't been mumbling at all. If Malloy hadn't heard him, it was because he was distracted by something, or had tuned him out without realizing it. There were worse things to get into a twist over, and Jim preferred to respond with a hearty 'yes sir' rather than argue.

"1 Adam-12, 1 Adam-12."

With a crackle, the dispatcher's voice came over the radio, alerting them to a call. A male suspect, a gas mart robbery in progress. The address was given, and Jim flipped on the lights and the siren.

"1 Adam 12, roger."

…

The cruiser screeched over the curb, coming to a halt behind some of the gas pumps where they could look through the front doors and have some cover. There were two figures immediately visible—one appeared to be the gas attendant, worriedly unloading the cash register. One man brandished a gun at him. There were two more people that seemed to be involved, one near the back and one near the door. It was impossible to tell if they were civilian hostages or theives at first…

Malloy and Reed slipped out of the car, weapons drawn.

A man ran across the street towards them, waving his hands. "Officers! Officers!"

Malloy beckoned him over. "You made the call?"

"I did—I'm the manager. I was coming around from the restroom when I saw three guys go inside—they were all armed."

"Backup," Malloy said quickly to Reed. Reed leaned inside the car and began to back the request on the radio, giving more details and the address to their location.

Suddenly, an ear-blasting shot rang out. Malloy and Reed dropped to the ground, eyes seeking where the bullet landed. A piece of metal from the gas pump came loose and crashed to the ground. The manager gasped and threw his arms over his head. Reed pulled the radio down to his mouth and alerted dispatch to shots fired.

"Sir, I'm going to ask you to go across the street and wait until it's safe," Malloy commanded. "Under _any _circumstances, do not attempt to go into your store. But before you go, is there another way in?"

"There is a door from the restroom that goes through to the janitor closet, and a door from the closet that opens to the back hallway. I keep it locked so that customers can't shoplift." The manager grinned. "I suppose if you're determined enough, the front door suits just fine." He pulled keys from his pocket. "The little one opens all the doors between the outside and the inner hall. Good luck."

Malloy nodded grimly as the manager booked it back across the street.

"We've got two more units on the way," Reed said, ducking back.

"ETA?"

"Ten minutes. They just finished apprehending a murder suspect—it was a multiple car pursuit. Every other unit is farther away."

"Ten minutes might be too late for that poor fellow inside," Malloy pointed out. "I say we hit the bathroom if talking 'em out doesn't work."

"One of us should distract at the front door. He did say there were three in there."

"The other can come out of the closet from behind…"

"Unless one of them knows it's actually an exit and has a gun trained on that door."

Malloy grimaced. "So we're a little outgunned. But they _are_ trapped in there. Let's give them a chance to come out and surrender." He adjusted his crouching on the ground, lifting his hand and flexing the knuckles uncomfortably. "I don't want to wait too long or my limbs are gonna keep falling asleep."

Reed nodded, and took a moment to rummage for the megaphone. He positioned the end of it over the hood of the car and hit the button.

"This is the L.A.P.D.," he announced calmly. "We don't want anyone to get hurt. Why don't you come out? You're outnumbered and completely surrounded."

Malloy raised his eyebrows. Reed pulled his finger off the button and whispered, "There is nothing wrong with a good bluff, is there?"

To answer, a second shot rang out, and this one shattered the window on the driver's side of the cruiser. They ducked their heads again. "I can approach from the west corner of the building without being seen from the windows," Reed exclaimed. "If they turn their backs, even for a second…"

"Or if they've got their guns on the closet, radio me with beats, one for yes and two for no." Malloy pulled the walkie-talkies out of the vehicle and passed one to Reed. On a count, Reed bolted around the left; Malloy went to the right. From the perspective of those caught like rats in a trap inside, they only saw two shadows disappear from behind the car.

…

Malloy unlocked the bathroom and waited several seconds. Silence gave him the confidence to leap inside, checking corners instantly. Then he slowly unlocked the closet door, keeping great care to not knock over the precarious and top-heavy mop handles leaning on the walls.

Reed had a better vantage point. One suspect stuffed his bag with the money from the cash register. One was pressing his gun to the attendant's back, forcing him towards the back of the store by the ice cream machine. The third was hiding behind a stack of soda cases, aiming his gun at the front door.

Malloy stepped over the cleaning supplies. He pulled his walkie-talkie to his mouth and whispered, "Backs to the door?"

Reed gave two clicks for 'no' over the walkie. Malloy frowned.

Another shot was fired. "Jim!" hissed Malloy, biting back anything louder than a library whisper. "What happened?" No answer. He felt sweat dripping down his forehead and underarms. All too long of a pause—a pause only of seconds—but it felt like an eternity. A measurement of time that crawled by and racked Malloy's mind with the thought of _What if they got Jim… what if…_

Reed jerked in surprise as the gas attendant suddenly jumped towards one of the robbers, trying to disarm him. The one by the cash register took one shot, and the attendant crumpled in mid air and fell in a tangle to the ground, twitching. The one who had nearly been disarmed gasped with horror. Reed took the chance—he shot the window, and shot the man at the cash register, sending him to the floor. The one by the door burst through and took off running straight for the police car.

Reed screamed into the walkie. "NOW, PETE!" then he sprinted after the fleeing suspect.

Malloy didn't have time to be relieved at hearing Jim's voice. He crashed into the main portion of the short hallway, shouting "HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! Drop your gun!"

The third and last suspect slowly lifted his hands into the air, his firearm falling to the floor with a metallic bang. He looked out into the parking lot—Reed tackled his buddy to the asphalt, jerking his arms behind his back and kicking his gun away from him. The robber gasped and stepped forward involuntarily—then remembered there was a cop behind him with a gun. But why hadn't he said anything else?

He turned, slowly, hands still in the air.

Malloy stood still, swaying on the spot. Sweat dripped readily down his face, and his arm was drooping, the gun pointing at the floor.

There was a tense pause. Wasn't he supposed to hear his Miranda rights—or Melissa—or something? He'd been booked a few times before and felt familiar enough to wonder why this one was going so differently.

"You're… you're…" Pete lost his track of thought, and put his free hand to his forehead, trying to calm a wave of dizziness and nausea that overcame him. He suddenly dropped to his knees, hard, his gun fused to the hand that fell lifelessly at his side.

The thief gasped, and caught himself rushing forward to help the fallen policeman. Then he remembered exactly what was at stake—no. He had to make a run for it. He burst through the back door, the way Malloy had entered.

As Reed handcuffed his man, he looked inside the front doors. He saw Malloy crumpled in a heap… facedown on the floor. _No, no. Please no._

He pushed his catch into the back of his vehicle and went for the radio. "Three people down—repeat—three down, one in custody, and one leaving the area on foot. I've got an officer down, possible gunshot victim; the station attendant is down, possibly dead. One suspect down, one in custody, third on the run—on foot—possibly down third or fourth street. Requesting ambulance."

"1 Adam-12 roger that, 1 Adam 14 in pursuit…" as if in answer, the patrol car blazed by and turned on third street, blaring their sirens. The driver spotted the third suspect and sped after him. "Ambulance on the way."

"1 Adam-12, roger." Reed ran back for the gas mart. His shoes crunched over the glass—first he checked the pulse of his partner. _Still going, but weak._ He checked the gas station attendant—dead, a young man about twenty-five. The gray matter of his brains splattered under the gunshot wound directly through his forehead.

Then he checked behind the counter—the suspect lay face upward, half his abdomen bleeding out by his shot, money sprinkled over him like toppings on a scarlet cake. The backup units finally screeched into the parking lot.

Reed returned to Malloy, ascertaining his injuries. To his surprise, there was no sign of a gunshot wound. He realized… he hadn't heard any shots after his own fire. If the third suspect had been able to run—perhaps Pete was overcome in some way _before _he left. Jim knew that Pete was fully capable of tackling and disarming a single man from behind.

Jim slowly turned Pete over, grabbing a t-shirt with a truck logo from the rack nearby. He wadded it up and tucked it under Pete's head, which felt far too heavy. But Pete was not out cold—he was trying to open his eyes, and his mouth murmured as if trying to speak.

"Hang in there, friend," Jim said carefully. "I've got you."

"Got in… got in, shhh…" Pete muttered, blinking as he tried to focus on Jim's face above him. "It'sss prebellan on fis…sure…" the gibberish descended into a moan of pain, and Pete lifted his empty hand as if to shield himself from something. The hand that held his unfired gun was held limply and uselessly. Jim took it away from him with deft, gentle hands, tucking it into his belt.

"Where are you hit? Can you show me?"

"Not… hit…" his voice descended into nonsensical mumbles. "Uh…mmph…" As if overcome by a muscle cramp, a spasm of pain washed over Pete's face. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. "My head…hurts."

The sergeant, Mac, and his partner came through the front, weapons drawn. "What happened?"

Jim looked up, confusion and worry raging across his face. "Suspect behind counter, dead. Gas attendant shot dead when he tried to escape—he's on the fourth aisle. Pete—here—this may sound strange—but I think Pete fainted, and seems to be in a delirium of some sort. He says it's his head. But he doesn't seem to be shot. I don't get it."

The wail of a siren echoed some distance away. The ambulance would be there soon. The sergeant knelt by Malloy, examining him with the same confusion. "Pete? Can you hear me?"

Pete's head lolled from side to side, but then, his eyes slowly opened fully. "Huh," he said gruffly, "What are you guys starin' at?" He looked around with bewilderment as Jim sighed with relief. "Am… am I hurt?"

"You tell me," Jim replied. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Not… really. I don't know—what—happened," Pete tried to sit up. "I'm fine—though—but the guy…"

"Another unit is in pursuit," said the sergeant.

"You had him?" Jim questioned, pushing Pete gently back to the floor. "He didn't shoot you?"

"I thought I had him. I don't remember what happened after that. Guess I didn't." Malloy flexed his arm, glancing down at his hand. "Huh."

"What is it?" Jim asked quickly.

"My arm was bothering me earlier. Kept falling asleep—or maybe," Pete paused and his eyebrows furrowed thoughtfully. "It's just numb. It's numb now." He stretched his fingers and winced. "Maybe I… wasn't pointing the gun at him like I thought I was. I don't know what happened…"

"Damn it," Mac blurted, then shut his mouth, not one to ever—ever—lose his cool. At least not in front of his men—or, at least not _too _often. "Do you have any medical conditions I should have been informed of, Malloy?"

Pete frowned, embarrassed that he hadn't mentioned anything when he knew he should have. "Very high blood pressure, according to what my doctor said this morning."

"And yet you came to work anyhow?"

"That's about the size of it."

"Either you've had a stroke or you're about to have a heart attack, that numb arm is a symptom," Mac said roughly, looking at Reed. "Did he have trouble speaking? You said it seemed like a delirium?"

"He mumbled complete nonsense before he completely conscious," Jim replied.

"I _what?_" Pete snapped, lifting his head.

The sergeant pushed his had back down to the t-shirt wad. "I want you to stay very still. And you are not going to _walk _out to the ambulance—you hear me? That's an order."

Malloy let out a breath. He knew there was a risk of being killed on the job, like being shot by a criminal or in some other way that meant he was serving the people. But dying from his own body turning against him? That was something else entirely, and something Malloy had never considered. He always joked about being older than Reed, but he wasn't old enough to start suffering a medical tragedy within himself. That happened to… _old_ people. The ambulance siren grew unbearably loud to Pete's ears.

"How do you feel?" Jim asked hesitantly.

"Rotten, like a mule kicked me," Pete admitted roughly. "My head… can hum esh under mess it," he grew suddenly frustrated, and tried to sit up again. This time he was acutely aware of how jumbled his speech was, but it seemed his mouth would not obey the signals from his brain. "Gessem partsh ell iss…ugh."

The sergeant cursed. "Pete? You don't need to tell us now, okay? Tell us later."

"You're going to be okay," Jim repeated, slowly putting his hand on Malloy's shoulder. "The ambulance is here. Just sit tight, Pete."

Pete felt sharpness in his head so severely that he wondered if he had lain on broken glass. He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, then his whole face relaxed, and he slipped into unconsciousness again.

"Come on, Pete, come on," Jim said, unable to keep himself from sounding a little panicked. "Wake up. _Wake up._"

The ambulance backed up to the entrance, and the medics brought out the gurney. Reed awkwardly stood up and stepped out of the way, watching with wide eyes. _My partner… a heart attack? _That didn't seem possible. He slowly followed them outside. In the lot, the coroner's hatchback station wagon awaited to pick up the criminal and the body of the attendant. The sergeant offered to transfer the caught suspects in his own vehicle so that Jim could follow the ambulance. Jim nodded gratefully, and noted with only mild pleasure that the third suspect—the one that ran away on foot—had been caught.

He ran up to the third cruiser where the suspect was in the back seat, and tapped the glass of the driver's window.

Officer Williams rolled it down. "How is Malloy?"

"We don't know. I actually wanted to ask your catch a few questions."

"We read him his rights… he hasn't said a word."

"Just about Pete. If there is anything he can tell me, that I can tell the doctor's, it would be appreciated."

"He just collapsed, is all!" the suspect barked fearfully. "I didn't touch him! He had his gun on me and I surrendered, I swear I did. Then when I turned around, he fell over. I wanted to help him—I did—but I didn't—I ran. I'm sorry. I am! My partner—he shot the kid, too. The one we had hostage. I didn't know he was gonna kill anybody. I ran and that's it."

"What did he look like before he collapsed?" pressed Jim.

"It happened so fast. I guess he was sweaty and sort of moving in place, like he couldn't stand straight. That's it! That's all I know!"

Williams shrugged. "I guess that's that."

"Thanks, see you back at the station," Jim tapped the car door and stepped backwards. Then he hurried back to his cruiser, forgetting around the broken glass. With an impatient sigh, he pulled his leather jacket from the back seat—and Malloy's jacket—and draped it over the lower and back half of the seats. Wincing at the crunch sounds when he sat, he was relieved to not feel any sharp pricks on his back, legs, or rear. He carefully turned the ignition and put it into drive, easing off the brake and heading back into traffic. He was going to have a late night tonight doing reports, but what mattered right now was getting to Pete.

He hovered about ten miles over the posted speed limit.

…

Malloy began to regain consciousness in the ER. He hovered between a heavy sort of confusion and the desire to speak clearly to whomever was around him. His eyes blearily opened in time to hear the doctor ordering a CT scan, a blood test, and an EKG. He felt an uncomfortable prick in his arm and finally stirred himself fully awake.

"Welcome back, officer, I am Doctor Bracket," said the man in the white coat, shining a penlight into his eyes and flicking the small white beam back and forth.

"Mmhm," Pete greeted tiredly. He knew him. The name exchange was probably protocol… or maybe it was a test.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"I'm officer Peter Joseph Malloy with the L.A.P.D. It's 1975." A pause, and a pained, rueful smile. "Shall I tell you the president too?"

"No need to over compensate with trivia to try and make us let you out early," smiled Dixie, one of the nurses. She was a friend who'd dealt with Malloy before, but usually it was rejecting his repeated flirtations over a counter. "Just stick with the answers the doctor needs."

"Whatever you say," sighed Malloy, unusually cooperative.

"I have a few questions for you," asked Dr. Bracket, "Do you have a history of heart conditions or have been considered at risk for strokes?"

Pete's mouth was dry. "Not… that I know of. High… blood pressure… that's all."

"Your BP is high but your other vitals are slowly returning to normal. Can you explain what you remember?"

"Well… first I tried to alleviate the stress experienced on the job by apprehending a gas mart robbery…" Malloy began his story, trying not to appear too sarcastic.

…

Reed hated hospital waiting rooms. Unlike paramedics just doing their everyday jobs, if Jim was ever here, it was never for a good reason. Usually it meant that a good cop was hurt or dying. He didn't expect to be here under such strange circumstances.

He had been waiting for an hour, maybe two. He lost track of time.

Just then, he spotted a paramedic that he knew from colliding at various calls around the county. Young and unaware, the paramedic was strolling through the hallway, with eyes for an attractive nurse at the water fountain. He glanced into the waiting room, just out of habit, and noticed Jim.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, trotting over, his sky-blue shirt tucked neatly into his pants and his gangly arms swinging. "How're you, Reed?"

"Hey, Johnny," Jim said, unable to keep the gloom from his tone.

"What're you doing there?"

"Pete collapsed in the middle of a robbery bust. They think it's his heart."

"Oh no," Johnny Gage instantly sat down beside him. "What happened?"

"Well, first it was a high blood pressure but nothing serious. I guess we were wrong about that. His arm was numb and his hand kept falling asleep, then he was down, and muttering total gibberish…"

"That sounds bad," Johnny nodded doubtfully. "But he's a pretty fit guy. He'll come through. He always does."

Jim nodded, lacing his fingers behind his neck and resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes traced the pattern of the stark linoleum, memorizing lines for no reason except to keep his mind occupied.

Johnny's partner, Roy, rounded the corner and spotted them sitting together in silence. "Hey," he said slowly, "What's going on?"

"Pete Malloy is here, something wrong with his heart or something," Johnny updated him quickly, saving Jim the trouble. "I was just telling Reed here that Malloy will pull through—it sounds bad, but he's strong and physically fit."

"Well sure," Roy said calmingly. Reed noted he was using the voice he used when in the middle of calming a hysterical victim. _Nice touch. _"Pete has had rough spots. He can beat whatever it is."

Reed sat up and faced them. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

"Hate to leave you alone here," Roy said, his concern obvious. "But we have to get back to the station. Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah… if I don't hear anything in the next ten minutes, I'll stop in the cafeteria. Then I'll come back and wait them out."

"Good, good," Johnny said, slapping Reed on the shoulder comfortingly. "Hang in there, okay? Let us know how he is."

"Sure thing, fellas. You guys take care, too."

Roy leaned down and shook his hand, the gesture one of respect, not formality.

…

Malloy felt uncomfortable being the center of attention. He wished that if there was some way all the nurses and the doc could just face the other wall while questioning him, he'd feel far less exposed, awkward, and vulnerable. He loved to divert attention elsewhere, but it's difficult to do when one is the patient.

"Ready for the diagnosis?" Dr. Bracket pulled his stool to the side of his bed, folding his hands in a relaxed and easy manner. "You suffered from a transient ischemic attack—or more simply, a warning stroke. You had a small blood clot that blocked off portion in your brain—and while some of your symptoms increased and some decreased, by the time we completed the scans we could see that the clot had already mostly dissolved and you did not suffer brain damage. You were very lucky. Had it been a full stroke, we may have lost you. It is imperious to start surgery as soon as the diagnoses is known, but… not the case with you, fortunately."

Pete was hesitant to ask, but knew he must. "So… what does that mean for me?"

"It's going to mean a little cooperation from you from now on."

"If you want me to quit my job," Pete stated, more stiffly than he meant. "You're out of your mind."

"I've been accused of worse," Dr. Bracket smiled lightly. "I'm not going to ask you to quit your job. In fact, your job will be helpful to you. I'm going to recommend a high level of physical exercise."

Malloy looked at him critically. "And?"

"And I'm going to prescribe you a medication that will bring your blood pressure down and improve your blood flow to keep this from happening again. With the proper precautions, you should be able to continue with your job."

Pete tried not to make his sigh of relief too obvious. "Well… that doesn't sound too bad."

"It isn't. Like I said, you're a lucky man. Those who have suffered TIA's are usually considered greater risks for strokes—but luckily your cause is the most treatable one. If you are faithful with the medication, it'll improve your health in the long run."

"I think I can live with that."

"The point is, Officer Malloy, you _will _get to live with that. Most cannot say the same."

Pete wondered why he suddenly felt emotion welling up inside him. He wasn't going to cry, he wasn't the crying type. So he brought a hand to his eyes and rubbed them, disguising his choked-up voice with a sigh. The doctor waited, patiently.

"Thank-you, Dr. Bracket."

"You're welcome."

"Not to sound ungrateful for the, uh, _hospitality_—but how soon can I get outta here?"

"We're going to give you your first dose today and keep you overnight for observation. There are side affects to most medications and we can make the adjustments as needed."

"…overnight? You sure?"

"Completely necessary. Stay put and I'm going to go tell your partner that you're okay."

"Can I have visitors?"

"I'll send Officer Reed in, if you like."

"Uh, yeah, please. I'd like that very much," Pete said, trying to hide how eager he was to see his partner. Dr. Bracket nodded.

Even if he was in terrible shape, it always did some good for Pete to see Jim walking, talking, and healthy as usual. The sight of him made him feel better, though he'd never admit so. It was just part of that cop attitude—as long as others were safe, his own safety didn't matter as much. Seeing Jim would be a distraction and a relief.

Malloy shifted slightly, and an observant, silent Dixie adjusted the hospital bed and pillows behind him so that he could receive visitors sitting up. "Thank-you, ma'am."

"You're welcome, Pete," Dixie patted his hand kindly, and made for the door.

Dr. Bracket opened the door from the hall, allowing an obviously eager Reed to plow through—apologetically almost running Dixie over—and strode quickly into the room. "Hey!" he greeted enthusiastically, sitting on Dr. Bracket's stool and dragging it even closer to the bedside. "How are you feeling?"

"Other than embarrassed and suffering from a preemptive case of cabin fever, I'm doin' okay."

Dixie and Kel smiled briefly at each other and left quietly.

"The doc told me you had a small stroke. You're not going to quit the force, are you?"

"Think the L.A.P.D. would get rid of me so easily?"

"No—no, I guess not," Jim grinned. "But you're going to be okay."

"Yeah, as long as I'm a good boy and take my pills," Pete replied sarcastically. "It'll be a hassle but I'm good at making necessary habits good ones."

"Well, that's…" Jim nodded. "That's good news. Really good news."

"Hm, worried about little old me?"

"Naturally. Hey—I gotta tell Mac that you're out of danger. He was really worried too. Then I'll come back in here and hang out with you for a bit."

"You don't have to…"

"Don't worry, I won't talk your ear off. I'm bringing the paperwork for our bust."

Pete frowned. "And here I was thinking I was going to get a day off."

"Not on your life," laughed Jim, and realizing how careless and ironic that statement sounded, he faltered. "You know I'm just kidding, I'm not going to make you do paperwork."

Pete merely smirked. "Get out of here."

"It's good to see you alive and coherent, partner."

"You too, as usual," Pete quipped in reply, thinking back to the moment in the janitor's closet when he heard shots and didn't get a reply on the radio. When he thought it had been Jim who was shot—he didn't want to think about that.

He shuddered, and looked to the far wall, zoning out on the old peach-colored paint job and dark green curtains. He wouldn't think about that. If there was ever a time to bargain with lives, he hoped Jim always ended a call walking. Walking home to a wife and a kid. If anyone had to die, Pete Malloy could do it, for him. Easily.

…

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